_Oxford and Cambridge._
I had seen Oxford in vacation, and again during term; I had now the
privilege of attending its Encænia. The occasion brings many
distinguished persons to the University, and the pleasures of dining and
breakfasting in the college-halls, and with private parties, are greatly
enhanced by such additions to the company of eminent residents. The
ceremonies in the Academic theatre sadly disappointed me. Imagine an
open area, filled with gownsmen and their friends, and surrounded by
tiers of boxes filled with ladies, above which, near the ceiling, is
elevated a third tier, full of undergraduates. The Dons and doctors, in
their robes, sit on either side of the Vice-Chancellor, at one extremity
of the theatre, in a place something between a row of boxes and an
orchestra. In the presence of ladies and of such grave and reverend
seniors, one naturally expects decorum from all parties; but though I
had often read of the frolics in which the undergraduates are permitted
to indulge on these occasions, I confess I was not fully prepared for
the excessive and prolonged turbulence of the scene. While awaiting the
opening of the ceremonial, it was well enough to laugh at the cheers of
the youth as they called out successively the names of favourite public
personages, or at their sibilations, when the names of “Lord John
Russell” and “Cardinal Wiseman” were proposed for merited derision. But
when, again and again, as the venerable Vice-Chancellor rose to make a
beginning, his voice was vociferously outnoised by that of the boys
overhead, I began to think the joke was carried a little too far. There
had been some omission of customary music, and to supply the deficiency,
uprose those legions of youth, and shouted—_God save the Queen_, in
full chorus, stanza after stanza, till the Dons looked eminently
disloyal in their impatience. The Creweian Oration was delivered by the
Public Orator, and I was particularly desirous of marking his
pronunciation of Latin words, as well as the general merit of a
performance in which once, upon a like occasion, Bishop Lowth so
handsomely acquitted himself. But, I think, I speak within bounds when I
say that scarcely an entire sentence could be heard, from beginning to
end. All manner of outcries assailed the speaker, from his rising till
he surceased. At one time, an extremely impudent personality excited a
general smile. The orator waxed warm as he spoke, and growing quite
rubicund of visage, some flagitious freshman cried out—“Pray stop; it
makes me hot to look at you.” Several distinguished individuals, bishops
and generals, and scientific men, were presented to receive the
_Doctorate in Civil Law_, and now I supposed the hospitality of the
University would suffice to shield the eminent personages from the
annoyance of such untimely fun. But there was no cessation, and when Sir
W. Page Wood was presented, there was a merry cry of “_inutile lignum_,”
at which no one laughed more heartily than the party himself. Verily,
thought I, if this were unheard of in England, and were only set down in
the book of some peregrine Dickens, as what he saw in America, at a
Harvard Commencement, how inevitably would it figure in reviews and
newspapers as a telling fact against the disorganizing tendencies of
democratic education! In Oxford, it is regarded as a mere outbreak of
youthful merriment, and such is indeed the case: and yet, unless
_Encænia_ and _Saturnalia_ are synonymous terms, one must be allowed to
think the custom best honoured in the breach. I must add, that during
the delivery of a poem, by an undergraduate, his comrades showed more
respect, and the tumult subsided for a time, like that of Ephesus, on
the remonstrance of the town-clerk. The young poet pronounced his
numbers in the same tribune where once stood Reginald Heber, enchanting
all hearers with his “Palestine.”
A lunch in the superb new hall of Pembroke, of which many ladies partook
with the other guests, giving the hall an unusually gay appearance; a
dinner at Oriel, and afterwards sport with bowls, and other games, in
the garden of Exeter; and, finally, a very agreeable evening party at
Magdalen; these were the other occupations of the day, in which I
greatly enjoyed the society with which I mingled. I was particularly
pleased to observe the enthusiasm of the female visitors of Oxford, many
of whom had come up for the first time, and were less acquainted with
the place than myself. It was a novel pleasure, on my part, to turn
_cicerone_, and to explain to a group of English ladies, the wonders of
the University.
Next morning, after breakfast at Merton, and a lunch at Jesus College,
with some kind friends who were preparing to leave Oxford for the Long
Vacation, I went, in the company of some of them, to Bedford, and there
took coach for Cambridge. I thought of John Bunyan, who once inhabited
the county-jail, in this place, and there composed his wonderful
allegory; and as I began to travel along the banks of the Ouse, I
thought of William Cowper, who was one of the first to do justice to his
piety and genius. If the Church of England, sharing in the fault of the
times, (and visiting others with far milder penalties than both Papists
and Puritans laid upon her) was in any sort a party to his ill-usage, it
must be owned that she has done him full justice, in the end. He owed
his enlargement to the Bishop of Lincoln’s interposition, and Cowper and
Southey have affixed the stamp, and given currency to the gold of his
genius. I am ashamed that he was not taken into the Bishop of Lincoln’s
house, and made a deacon, and so cured of the mistaken enthusiasm which
was evidently the misfortune of the tinker, and not the natural bent of
the man.
Our journey lay over a dull and level country, and there was little to
enliven it, except the conversation of a young Oxonian going to see the
rival University. A cantab, returning from Oxford, maintained a
good-natured debate with him, in favour of his own _alma-mater_. We went
through St. Neot’s, where I remembered Cowper again; descried at the
distance of some twenty miles the majestic bulk of Ely Cathedral, and
finally greeted the fair vision of King’s College, conspicuous among the
other academic homes of Granta. It was the fourth of July—and thoughts
of the very different scenes through which my friends were passing in
America, were continually in my mind. Here it was not thought of, though
a day which has left its mark upon Great Britain, and the world. Was it
the day of a rebellion? By no means; unless the day that seated William
of Orange on the throne of England was such. Our fathers ceased to be
Englishmen, because a corrupt and incompetent Ministry were resolved
that they should no longer be freemen. I thank God we are no longer at
the mercy of such men as Lord John Russell, and Sir William Molesworth.
So I mused, even as I stood, for the first time, in venerable Cambridge,
where some of my forefathers were educated, and where I felt it a sort
of wrong to be disinherited of a filial right to feel at home.
I was not disappointed, disagreeably, in Cambridge, but the reverse; and
it grew upon me every hour that I was there. One of my first visits was
to the truly poetical courts of Caius, where the singular quaintness of
its three gates charmed alike my sight and fancy. “Before honour is
humility”—and here the proverb is translated into architecture. You
must pass through the gate of humility, and the gate of virtue, before
emerging through the gate of honour. Strange that the beneficent founder
of this college, like Dr. Faust, in Germany, should have left his name
to legend-makers and fabulists, and so to comedy, and the “Merry Wives
of Windsor.”
The noble twin of Oxford is certainly inferior in the appearance which
she first presents to a stranger, and yet, from the first, the chapel of
King’s is a superb sight, which even Oxford might almost grudge to her
sister. I greatly regretted reaching Cambridge during a vacation, when
comparatively few of the gownsmen were on the spot. Still, having become
so familiar with academic manners, in Oxford, it seemed hardly necessary
to do more than survey the still-life of Cambridge, in order to
understand it as well. The diversities between the Universities are
indeed many, and all my prepossessions are in favour of Oxford; and yet,
after a brief external survey of her rival, and much conversation with
some of her loyal sons, I can easily understand their attachment to her,
and the pride they take in her reputation, as well as their firm
conviction of her superiority. To an American, indeed, the late election
of so unfit a person as Prince Albert to be their Chancellor, is a
surprising thing; and it is no very bright omen, for the University,
that the prince already aims to shape it, as near as possible, after the
similitude of Bonn, his own garlicky, blouse-wearing, and pipe-smoking
_Alma Mater_, in Teutschland. But, on the other hand, the spirited
resistance which was made to that measure, in bold opposition even to
the known wishes of a beloved Queen, is instanced, by many
Cantabrigians, as a proof of devotion to great principles, of which they
have reason to be proud. They have a thousand better reasons for being
proud of their University, and would that their Chancellor, who is
otherwise so well qualified, had the power to appreciate and feel them
half as warmly as many an American does, from the depth of his soul!
Cambridge struck me as an older and less modernized place than Oxford.
Its streets are a labyrinth, and many of them present the appearance of
Continental, rather than of Insular Europe. One of the first things that
struck me was the conduit erected by the same “old Hobson” whom Milton
celebrates, and from whom comes the adage of “Hobson’s choice.” He was a
carrier, and kept horses to let, but made the Cantabs take the horse
that stood next the stable-door whenever they came to hire. He certainly
was a remarkable man, for what other carrier was ever consigned to
immortality by a monument in Cambridge, by a practical proverb, and by a
memorial in the verse of such a poet as Milton?
As the means of information respecting Cambridge are in everybody’s
hands, and as the picturesque of its colleges and grounds is familiar
from engravings, I shall spare my reader the trouble of details which
might seem a repetition of those of Oxford. In St. John’s college, which
its own men are accused of considering the University, I found the
chapel, though small and plain, a most attractive place. Its “non-juror
windows,” and other memorials, revive many historical names. I know not
why the Johnians have received the Pindaric epithet of Swine, but so it
is; and the peculiarly pretty bridge, spanning the Cam, which unites its
quadrangles and halls, has accordingly won the sportive name of the
“Isthmus of _Sues_.” In the very pleasant grounds adjacent, I plucked a
leaf from the silver-beech, said to have been planted by Henry Martyn,
and breathed a blessing on his memory. A fellow of Trinity kindly
devoted himself to showing me the attractions of his college, and they
are very great. The library is a Valhalla of literary heroes, the sons
of Trinity, whose busts adorn the alcoves: and the statue of Byron, by
Thorwaldsen, is a superb addition to its treasures of art, which, on the
whole, will do no harm here, excluded as it was from Westminster Abbey,
by a virtuous abhorrence of the bold blasphemer whom it represents, and
thus stamped as deep with infamy as it is otherwise clothed with
attractiveness. Among the relics of the collection, there were two which
any man must behold with reverence: a lock of Sir Isaac Newton’s hair,
and the original manuscripts of Paradise Lost, and of Lycidas! Then to
the chapel—that chapel which ever since I read “the Records of a Good
Man’s Life,” in school-boy days, I had longed to see, and where I had
often wished it had been my lot to pray, in college life. In the
ante-chapel, there was that statue of Newton, so beautifully described
by the author, as arresting the melancholy attentions of a consumptive
youth, as he passed it, for the last time, in his surplice, and
confessed that this had been too much his idol, in that house of God,
filling his enthusiasm with the worship of genius, when he should have
thought only of his Maker. I shall never forget the thrills of excited
imagination with which I received some of my first impressions of
Cambridge, in reading that story of Singleton: and now they all revived
as I stood upon the spot.
Among the attractions of the small colleges, I must not omit to mention
the chapel of Jesus College, which has lately undergone a thorough
restoration, and presents one of the most beautiful specimens of revived
mediævalism in art which I have ever seen. It is the work of an
accomplished gentleman of the college, assisted to some extent by the
voluntary contributions of undergraduates. Nothing of the kind which I
saw in Oxford can compare with this exquisite Oratory. I went to
Christ’s college and saw Milton’s mulberry—a pleasant memorial of his
best days; the days when he was the “lady of his college” for youthful
comeliness, and the man of his college for the genius that produced
Lycidas, and for the unsoured feelings that could yet appreciate “the
high embowed roofs,” and the “studious cloisters” by which he was there
surrounded. Happy would it have been for him, had he kept that youthful
heart! The mulberry is propped up like an old man on his staff, and
shielded from the weather by a leaden surtout, but must soon cease to be
the last living thing that connects with the name of Milton.
What a place is Cambridge, when its minor colleges suggest such names!
As I passed what was formerly Bennet college, I thought of Cowper’s
lines on his brother. There, too, was Pembroke, suggesting thoughts of
Bramhall and of Andrewes—of Andrewes whom even Milton could praise,
albeit he was a prelate. There was Peterhouse, reminding me of good old
Cosin. More than all—there was little Caius (pronounced _Keys_) where
Jeremy Taylor, the poor sizar and the barber’s son, passed so often to
and fro, beneath its quaint old gates, bearing a soul within him, which
in after years he poured forth, like another Chrysostom, and made a
treasure for all time. I am sorry to say there is another college there,
which suggests the odious name of Cromwell, the man who kindled the
fiery coals in which the golden heart of Taylor, and the hearts of
thousands more, were well refined, and seven times purified.
The Fitzwilliam Museum is a noble collection of antique sculpture and
architectural relics, with a library and paintings, and has been housed
superbly in a building, which is a great ornament to Cambridge, although
built, in modern taste, and in Grecian style, suiting the things it
contains better than the place which contains it. I received far more
pleasure, however, from a visit to the celebrated round church, which
has been lately restored, and whose name, St. Sepulchre, refers it to
the era of the Crusades. But how shall I speak of King’s College Chapel?
I was not so fortunate as to see it filled with its white-robed
scholars, but its own self was sight enough. “Such awful
perspective”—indeed! Such tints from such windows—such carvings—such
a roof! It springs and spreads above you, light as the spider’s web, and
yet it is all massive stone, and its construction is an architectural
miracle. I climbed to the roof, and walked upon that same vaulting, as
upon a solid stone-pavement. It is put together in mathematical figures,
and on principles purely scientific; but modern architects are puzzled
to explain them. Above this, there is another roof, which is exposed to
the weather, and from which one enjoys a fine view of the town and the
surrounding country. The walks and avenues of limes, which stretch
before King’s, and which connect with the grounds of Trinity and St.
John’s, are inferior to nothing in Oxford, and are generally pronounced
by Cambridge men superior to Christ church meadows and the walks of
Magdalen. I strolled among some magnificent limes in the grounds of
Trinity, which might well apologise for a student’s opinion, that no
other college in the world has such grounds and trees. As for the river
Cam, its beautiful bridges, I am sorry to say, are reflected in a very
sluggish and dirty tide, called “silvery” only by poetical license.
Dining in the hall of Trinity, I was overwhelmed by the sublime
associations of such a place, as illustrated by the portraits around me.
Everywhere were the pictures of great historic sons of this college;
here was Pearson, and there was Barrow; and before us, as we sat at
meat, were Bacon and Sir Isaac Newton. What children has this Mother
borne; not for herself, but for all mankind! And thus much I will say
for Cambridge, as compared with Oxford, that whereas amid the
architectural glories of the latter, one almost forgets the glory of her
sons, you are reminded, at every turn in Cambridge, that her chief
jewels are the great men she has brought forth. One cannot give her all
the credit, indeed: she has been singularly fortunate; but when hers are
Bacon, and Newton, and Milton, and Taylor, and stars, in constellations,
of scarcely minor magnitude, what university in Christendom can call
itself superior? If Granta has her peer, there is nothing that is more
than that on earth.